


Hard To Hear

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [5]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Hallucinations, Language Barrier, Lots of Musical Screaming, Miscommunication, More serious than the summary makes it out to be, Musical Notes as a Literal Language, The Codex Umbra is powerful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-30
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-10-12 21:23:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10499730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: When you meet up with a pawn and decide to build a machine for your own ulterior motives but you literally cannot understand each other so it's just-*Screaming in trumpet**Cursing in harmonium*





	

**Author's Note:**

> Had this idea for awhile, though the original stuff was more light hearted.

Wilson was muttering again.

Maxwell tried to ignore him, staring down at the book in his hands, lit only by the flickering of the fires light. The letters swam about, disorientated him as he squinted and leaned over the pages a little, the notes of sound behind him not helping with his concentration. After a moment a particularly loud exclamation broke over the fires crackling, ringing in his ears, and Maxwell slammed his book shut with a snap, standing up suddenly.

When he turned away from the fire, to the side where a glowing lantern lay in the grass next to one of the tents, Maxwell grimaced as another string of sharp noise filled the air, hand going to the side of his head for a moment before directing his glare to the man causing all the disturbance. Wilson ignored him, whether by his own obliviousness or just because, pouring over the blueprints spread out in front of him.

Said blueprints were not from either of their hands, found near to a seemingly abandoned hound den along with unidentifiable bones and a pile of wood, and while Maxwell was not curious at all of who made them, Wilson had a keen interest in such things. Of course, instead of studying them to learn what they instructed in making, the man was more focused on the signatures and the small notes, looking for useless clues.

Now, Maxwell would have no problem with this, Wilson could do what he wanted, he didn't care so long as the machine was being built and food was readily available, but the idiotic mutterings got to him. 

The piercing noise hurt his eardrums, couldn't the man at least by polite enough to not open his mouth as frequently as he did? Maxwell didn't not talk for that specific reason, but it had to account for something to not make his “campmate” have to listen to his voice!

And that was why his own deep voice interrupted Wilson, made the man startle and scramble back for a moment, looking around frantically before focusing upwards on Maxwell. Maxwell's glare turned more into a frown, taking note of his companions disheveled face and lack of hygiene, how his eyes jittered around for a moment longer, staring a little too long to Maxwell's left and following some movement or other only he could see.

That would explain why all their mushroom supplies were getting low; the man was probably eating most of them instead of taking care of himself, a quick, short fix to a problem a good nights sleep would get rid of.

Maxwell would have berated him on this, especially for wasting supplies, but trying to have any sort of conversation at all usually ended in them screaming at each other before stalking off. It's sort of what happens when two people who dislike each other cannot understand a word that comes out of their own mouths.

Wilson took his time getting up, carefully rolling the blueprints as he pointedly ignored Maxwell and placed them into a backpack at his side. Once he stood up, backpack hanging on his shoulder, a stilted silence stretched over them.

Maxwell asked a question, some sentence or other he constructed that immediately blew away the instant the notes of musical sound escaped him. He could never remember exactly what he wanted to say, the words out of his head the moment he heard what was now his voice, some deep lilted instrument or other he could not identify, and the volume of it rose, loud and heavy.

Wilson looked bewildered, that wild look still haunting his face and eyes, and his own voice tittered back at Maxwell, sharper and more emotional almost, fluctuating in high pitches and lower mumbles, his expression drawing inward and confused as his own words were stolen from him.

At least, that's what Maxwell assumed was what was happening. Half the time Wilson made sound almost as if to just make sound, some gibberish thread of music that didn't lay on the ears very nicely, and whenever they had these “conversations” his confusion was almost palpable, how his face twisted up and he stuttered out notes, half takes as he lost whatever he had meant to say.

Maxwell rubbed his forehead, another short silence as he tried to think of a way to communicate what exactly he wanted, hand going to his mouth and letting out a sight.

How did one say “Please shut the hell up” when all that came out was incomprehensible music?

Focusing, trying to keep the words in his head, Maxwell gestured vaguely with his hand, towards his head and ears in a half hearted attempt to get the point across. His voice rumbled uncomfortably in his chest, louder than normal perhaps, and Wilson almost raised his hands to his own ears before stopping himself, instead just taking a simple step back.

Maxwell couldn't help how his face twisted into a scowl, the anger at how his attempts at communication were going so horribly simply because of his own damn voice. How it got this way or why he could only guess at, though contributing it to Their work was all he could do. Maxwell was certain he did not talk like this before, when he greeted Wilson at the gates and eventually at the Throne.

He still did not understand exactly how Wilson was here now, somehow out of the Thrones grasp after such a short time, but obviously because of this new development he could never find out.

The man in front of him stuttered something, the sound rising in sudden pitched note, his own stance shifting to defensive. His face hardened, glared at Maxwell as he babbled on, crossing his arms as he focused his eyes to stare directly up at the taller man.

Maxwell had to take a moment to recognize that possibly Wilson misinterpreted him, picked up something that was not true, but as Wilson continued on with that disgustingly annoying voice of his Maxwell found he did not have the patience for misunderstandings.

His own voice bowled over Wilsons with ease, interrupting the man and trampling onward in a low, thrumming rush, the sound uncomfortable in his chest and pressing harshly on his own ears. He stood up straighter, stiffened his shoulders as he tried to talk, to express his agitation at the sounds and notes from him and Wilson, snarling slightly as the music got much louder than normal, more distorted and deep.

Wilson reacted like he usually did when this happened; he started his own rant, sounds mixing badly with Maxwell chaos of noise, taking another step back with his face darker, teeth bared as he hissed out sharp snaps of music and instrumental shrieks. His eyes flickered around, shoulders shaking with either his own rage or whatever paranoia had gotten a hold of him this time, and his hand trembled when he gestured harshly at Maxwell, some vague wave that he moved sharply and angrily, pointing out into the darkness.

Maxwell could only interpret that as some sort of “Get out” meaning, and he reacted negatively, music ringing out loud and thick and incredibly deep, taking an aggressive step towards Wilson and leaning slightly forward. There was no way he'd just leave, especially when it was dark! That would be suicidal, even with fire starting supplies because too many of his own creations had a distressing taste for him and being out there alone indefinitely was a death sentence. This camp of theirs had gotten quite well stocked, both of them working on making it livable, and obviously Maxwell was not just going to up and leave because of Wilsons needily little voice!

The man took another step back, stuttered before shrieking up at him, some loud obnoxious musical number or other, and then he swerved around and stalked away, hands tight fists at his side and shoulders trembling hard.

Maxwell stopped talking, straightened up and watched silently as Wilson dug around in one of the chests and dragged out a thick torch, storming over to the fire pit before pushing past him harshly and outwards into the darkness. The bobbing light disappeared quickly, the darkened trees flickering over it before disappearing altogether, leaving Maxwell in silence.

Blessed silence.

The sigh he had, the exhale of air and loosening of his shoulders and back, that weight of piercingly loud sound, it fell away, finally. A moments rest at last.

Wilson would be back, of course. He always did, a couple days gone before he came crawling back after these sorts of arguments they had, usually injured or starving or dehydrated. They'd not talk for another couple of days, politely, or pointedly, ignored each other and worked separately, before something or other made them try to cooperate, had them babble loudly to each other before it became just a mite too loud and then it would start another freak out and thus continue the cycle.

Maxwell unsteadily made his way back to the fire pit, to the log that was used as a makeshift bench. His chest hurt, heart pounding harshly after all that noise and screaming, ears ringing still, and sat down heavily, holding his almost forgotten book in his lap. For a moment he just sat, breathed in deeply of the chill night, the fires smoke that blew up without a breeze to bother it, the smell of the forest and dirt and air.

Then Maxwell turned his gaze to his book, carefully laid a hand on its hard cover, the red M standing out in the firelight, and then he flipped it open. The pages rushed past, flipping casually by themselves before stilling and falling, open wide to a particular page. Maxwell squinted down at it, trying to see in the low lighting of flickering fire, blinking as his eyes burned at the attempt.

The letters almost moved, wiggling and wavering around, and while he may have had such problems in the past, nowadays it was so much harder to read. Not to mention that the English language, his own notes, looked so foreign to him now! He couldn't quite place the letters or words in his head anymore, grasping them and then having the meaning and understanding slip right out of him, and when a paragraph solidified for a moment it was still gibberish, worse because it was on the tip of his tongue, reading and knowing it meant something and yet not understanding a word that his eyes brushed over.

He turned his gaze to the opposite page, sliding over the piles of withering letters to see…

Ah, another music sheet.

He didn't know if it made an actual song, there was no name or marking or even page number of any kind on the books yellowed pages, but the notes only wavered here or there, didn't scratch across the page or twist and turn into incomprehensible shapes. And, what was even more confusing, Maxwell could read it.

It was in a vague sense, in a way where he wasn't translating but just knew what it had written upon it, a glance that moved down through the lines easily becoming something comprehensible. Not in a sentence way, not in the way words put themselves in a complete sentence, but in a way where Maxwell just knew it, as if he had been the one to place it there and the knowledge was already in his head.

This was the oddity that prevented him from writing and thus communicating with Wilson. The first time they had tried he hadn't even noticed that he'd scratched out a whole page of musical notes and Wilson had made what seemed to be a whole song, pages and pages long. It was when they had exchanged these pages that it became apparent that communication was going to have to be a minimal thing.

And usually it was. They barely spoke, especially after both of them found out how irritating the other sounded over long periods of time, and it was mostly to be polite to not speak or open ones mouth besides to eat. It was only during these…breaking points, perhaps, that any sound escapes them, and the racket they usually make can ring in the ears for weeks afterwards.

Maxwell focused on the page filled with musical notes, gaze trailing each line as he read. After a moment, however, he straightened up and snapped the book closed. Letting out another held breath, Maxwell ran his fingers through his thinning hair, staring into the fire.

A breeze picked up, soft and chill, and the flame guttered as the smoke was shoved into a different direction, fortunately away from Maxwell. He stared up at the sky, the starless void of darkness, of the moons lack of presence as it sat covered by the planets shadow. After a moment he stood up, stretched his back and shoulders, book in hand.

Maxwell returned the object into his tent, glancing over the sparse insides for a moment before strapping it back closed. He checked around the campsite, keeping an eye out for anything abnormal or suspicious, the books words still turning over and over in his head.

Once he felt satisfied, the fire low in its stone pit, Maxwell went over to the lantern that glowed softly next to Wilsons tent. Picking it up, examining its contents and checking on the fuel, Maxwell was content enough to take it in hand and start out into the night.

He wasn’t worried, per say, and usually he'd leave everything be and wait like the patient man he was, but something the book had written in it worried him. It's pages never repeated when he looked upon it, never opened to the same diagram or illustration or scribbled notes, and from past experience he knew it had written upon it many things, the past and future included, as well as the present of anywhere at all. 

What it had written in musical notes and lines tonight, on that yellowed page he'd never see again, worried him…greatly.

It never predicted the future exactly right, but he'd rather not risk it.

Taking care to avoid the underbrush, to not stumble on the ferns and grasses and bushes of the forest, Maxwell raised the lantern higher and looked around, getting his bearings. The camp was to the left of him, the faint glow of its sputtering fire still giving it away, and from what he remembered Wilson had taken off this way, to the east of camp. Probably not in a straight line, but the man had a habit of going in a general direction and sticking to it, never wandering too far. It should be easy enough to see the torch from a distance, and if it had been going out he'd be smelling smoke by now; he'd never found the reason why the automatic strategy was to burn everything to the ground, but it made sure one had light in the darkness of long nights.

Taking long strides, careful but not too slow, Maxwell continued through the forest, around tall pine trees and the dense undergrowth. There were no spiders here, the both of them having cleared the area and keeping a small farm of arachnids to the west, opposite of this place. There were treeguards, of course, and that was this forests main purpose; protection and a good renewable resource. Maxwell needed the living lumber of such creatures and Wilson relied upon them heavily when it came to hounds or even spider Queens.

As he went deeper into the forest, there was an itching nag in the back of his mind. The books writings had been very worrisome, especially with it's use of someone's name he had not wanted to think of for awhile, and the danger it told of in such a story like format made him very…

Uneasy, perhaps. They had touchstones, of course, even Life Amulets back at camp, but it seemed to hold such a measure of seriousness and confidence in its writings that Maxwell couldn’t just ignore it. The last time he had ignored its cryptic warnings…

Well, lets just say that the experience had been very bad and the only thing that had saved him was that the Codex had been his arms and it had reacted to his distress quickly.

Waving the lantern, trying to see into the darkness as Maxwell stopped for a moment, he waited as something…moved. The sounds were still a distance away, brush stepped upon and twigs breaking, steps most definitely, and Maxwell turned in a slow circle, trying to catch any sign of a light.

Nothing sparked out from the night, just the sounds steadily getting closer, more hurried, and Maxwell quelled his own anxiety as he waited, raised the lantern up as high as he could to bring more light around him.

There was only one thing out in this forest that could be making such a racket, and the lack of his torch made Maxwell uneasy, but the only thing he could do to help was keep the lantern on and visible.

The idiot probably just had his torch go out, hadn't even tried to create a fire or gather supplies for more light, and Maxwell grinded his teeth in irritation. Short sighted, Wilson was, didn't think ahead at all and got himself killed too many times to count because of that. Back on the Throne Maxwell would laugh and laugh and laugh at the obnoxious antics everyone would get up to, all these foolish pawns rushing about and getting killed the most mundane of ways, but now that he was down here he had to deal with it all on a very personal way. If Wilson ended up dying while helping him fend off hounds, then of course Maxwell was not going to survive, not to mention when they had to deal with reoccurring giants or flocks of migrating tallbirds.

It happened frequently enough, obviously, but that didn't mean Maxwell had to aid in the mans suicidal antics. He didn't like dying, actually, and worked quite hard on not doing so. This didn't seem to be the same with Wilson.

After another minute a shape came into view, frantic crashing of undergrowth and the low sputters of musical noise as Wilson stumbled into the light, tripping on his feet and hair disheveled and just a general mess.

He looked worse than usual, Maxwell noticed as the man panted and hissed out spits of notes, the sounds high pitched and wavering as he looked around, still looking wide eyed and hysterical. Maxwell politely didn't speak; he didn’t need the man having a fit at the sound of his deeper voice.

Once Wilson stood up, gaze only flashing over Maxwell for an instant before it jumped elsewhere, he experimentally took a step back, loudly making sure he snapped a few twigs. Wilson reacted instantly, but not in a way that said he understood; his babbling rose, notes rising and falling drastically as he started turning, wringing his hands as his gaze watched the line between the light and the dark like a hawk.

Maxwell winced at a particularly loud and piercing exclamation, lowering the lantern as he mulled over what to do. Obviously Wilson was not in the right state of mind to just follow him back to camp; the man may end up attacking him, which would be the worst case scenario.

He really should have grabbed a few of those cooked mushrooms they had on hand, just incase. 

Before he could come up with a better plan than “Leave him here and meet up in the morning”, Wilson suddenly lunged towards him. Maxwell stumbled back a step in surprise, his heart pounding hard in his chest at the sudden movement, but it turned out he wasn't the one being attacked; Wilson darted away again, gaze fixed on something else only he could see, and he shrieked out a string of music as he dodged it's assault.

Now, while this had been entertaining to watch on the Throne, it was a little too loud for Maxwell's ears now. Being on the physical plane really opened ones eyes, didn't it? It hurt the ears as well.

Maxwell carefully set the lantern down, hopefully away enough that Wilson wouldn't end up trampling it and dooming them all, and moved slowly forward. He didn't exactly know what to do, especially when it involved Them, but Wilson did not have a weapon for this and he couldn’t keep dodging it forever. Having the man bleed out due to aggressive hallucinations when Maxwell had used a lot of his time and the light of the lantern to find him would be detrimental and a huge waste.

It would also piss him off for awhile.

As Wilson darted away from the thing attacking him, leaping to his left with his focus away from Maxwell, he steadied himself and waited. Wilson looked frantic, panting harshly and yet still making those terrible, distorted musical notes, eyes wide and unfocused, and when he moved again, sudden and fast, Maxwell acted.

Stopping the man was hard enough, but having someone who looked small and weak who was actually quite hardy and strong struggle was very taxing. Still, Maxwell had only been walking in the forest; who knew what Wilson been up to, and all this fighting nonsense probably didn't aid in his attempt of getting free from Maxwell restraining him.

The man shrieked even louder after a moment, pushing against Maxwell's chest with his hands tight on his crossing arms, trying to scramble backwards from whatever was in front of him. Maxwell waited, stared at the spot where he knew the shadow was squatting, ready to lash out, daring it to lash out, but the sudden halt in movement grew, a stillness as Wilson froze in his arms.

Maxwell could feel him trembling, shaking terribly as Wilson's full weight leaned on him, the silence stretching as nothing happened. His hands were still gripping him tightly, ragged gasping from the man as everything calmed down a little. After a moment a little noise wavered up, Wilsons voice rising for a short note of sound.

Maxwell obviously didn't understand, but he didn't stay silent either, making some sort of conformational, instrumental weave of a note.

Whatever it meant, it made Wilson relax, his hands loosening on Maxwell's arms and slowly pulling his weight back up. 

They stood like that for a moment, the silence of the forest layered over the silence of the night, thick but not suffocating. The lantern continued to glow diligently, pale white light flooding the small area, bathing the plants and tree trunks, a hole of light in the gaping darkness.

And then Maxwell let go of Wilson, taking a step back and straightening his cloths, clearing his throat but making some low, stilted sound instead.

Wilson seemed better than he had been, though he wobbled as if he had lost most of his balance and kept his head down, staring at the forest floor. Better than seeing things or being attacked by shadows, Maxwell supposed, and he walked back over to the lantern and picked it up, holding it so they could see.

It took a moment for him to get his sense of direction but having been in these woods many times gives someone a sense of which way to go. 

As he was about to set off, back to camp and to get ready for another day, a wavering note from Wilson stopped him, made him turn back around and shine the light over his companion.

The man really needed to get himself together. Maxwell frowned deeply at him, displeased at this outing and the whole night in general, but waited as Wilson seemed to get more control and stand straighter, look directly at him with bloodshot eyes and a sallow face. He tried to talk, the stuttering more pronounced, more pauses and gaps, and the notes sang out for awhile in an awkward mess of some sort of attempt at communication until Maxwell made a gesture and his own voice of interruption.

The sound was getting to him, too broken and sharp to be tolerated at this time of night, but he mumbled something, something deep but quieter in tone, and that was all. 

Wilson nodded once and then started forward, reaching Maxwell's side before they both continued back, sticking close to him and stumbling every once in awhile over a bush or fern. The lanterns light was enough to see by, but they were both getting tired now. Taking measures to avoid thick undergrowth were ignored in favor of getting back to camp faster.

Once they stumbled out of the forest, Maxwell raising the lantern to check where they were and Wilson practically asleep on his feet, leaning slightly on Maxwell's side, it got a lot easier. They came out a short ways away from camp and the walk wasn't long at all, thought now Maxwell had to half carry and lead the other man and that was tiring, very tiring.

The camp was dark, fire having gone out awhile ago, but using the lantern worked well enough and Maxwell guided a dazed, mostly asleep Wilson to his tent and helped him in. There was a short, faded whistle of noise that trailed out and followed him as he closed up the tent door, and after a moment of silence Maxwell answered in kind, deeper and heavier but just as short, just as incomprehensible perhaps.

Maxwell pondered on lighting the fire but decided not to, rubbing his eyes with his free hand before making his way to his own tent. This had been a harrowing night, had been building up for a couple of weeks now, but the drama in the forest had taken a lot out of him. Not to mention the worries that spawned in his mind from the books short little entry, which seemed to not have had anything to do with tonight but promised of something worse.

Regardless, it had probably been a good thing, him going out there like that. How, he couldn't guess, especially right now when he was practically asleep on his feet.

Once in his tent Maxwell turned off the lantern, lowered its light from pale glow to dull glow to absolute darkness, and then he turned over under beefalo hide blankets and promptly passed out.

**Author's Note:**

> I just finished this at 1 in the morning, I am very tired, I apologize for any spelling or grammer or whatever mistakes, I'll fix them latter when I don't feel like death...
> 
> EDIT: Ok, so here are two youtube videos that sort of encompass exactly what they both sound like:
> 
> Wilson is a mute harmon trumpet: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=pVSlrVEKscU
> 
> Maxwell is just a normal harmonium: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=FXf9xwgp0Ms
> 
> Except imagine that a toddler was the one to be holding these instruments and that there actually is no consistent musical tunes or anything, just music mashing.
> 
> They're extremely loud and chaotic sounding.


End file.
